


Time Bomb Town

by irisbleufic



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, 1980s, Age Difference, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Character of Color, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Musicians, Not Canon Compliant, Science Fiction, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I hate to wonder out loud," said Marty, slowly, "but do you think we're now in an alternate timeline like that other nineteen eighty-five all because I got stuck here and you got zapped to oblivion?"</i>
</p><p>
  <span class="small">[Title borrowed from Lindsey Buckingham's <b><a href="https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play;_ylt=A2KLqIXMe6tU.xwA91T7w8QF;_ylu=X3oDMTByZ2N0cmxpBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDdmlkBHZ0aWQDBGdwb3MDMg--?p=time+bomb+town+lindsey+buckingham&vid=b3baf17432b2884083e374bbf0d16e4c&l=2%3A41&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DVN.608033534047292015%26pid%3D15.1&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DzNQ2fUHNd2I&tit=Time+Bomb+Town+-+Lindsey+Buckingham&c=1&sigr=11ajptl71&sigt=113dhl9f8&age=0&fr2=p%3As%2Cv%3Av%2Cm%3Asa&hsimp=yhs-001&hspart=mozilla&tt=b">song by the same name</a></b>, a.k.a. the song on Marty's clock-radio.]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my anons, neverrwhere, myfavoriteismike, nonsenseflora, havingbeenbreathedout, pinchofnutmeg, and wheredidiputmycigar. I re-watch this trilogy every other year; I saw all three films for the first time when _Part III_ came out on VHS. Strangely, as entrenched as I was in fandom culture by the age of fourteen, I didn't think to go looking for _BttF_ fanfiction until 2007. By some strange twist of fate (I wasn't even looking for slash; I was looking for _BttF fic, period_ ) the first stories I read were [several excellent Marty/Doc pieces](http://archiveofourown.org/users/usedusernames/works?fandom_id=226817) by usedusernames. My _BttF_ reading-pool eventually expanded to include [this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/296938) by Kleenexwoman, which is amazing. This story, _my_ story, is one of those wildcard pokes-with-a-stick in which I occasionally indulge; I've wanted to try my hand at these characters' voices for a long time, and what better year to do it than 2015? My favorite point in the series has always been the transition between the end of _Part II_ and beginning of _Part III_. My predecessors, usedusernames and Kleenexwoman, have both played with the trope that happens to be my favorite line of what-if inquiry (i.e. _Marty gets stuck in 1955_ ), so I don't doubt they've influenced the direction I've taken. My sincerest apologies to Lindsey Buckingham for borrowing his song title (it's [the tune on Marty's clock radio](https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play;_ylt=A2KLqIXMe6tU.xwA91T7w8QF;_ylu=X3oDMTByZ2N0cmxpBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDdmlkBHZ0aWQDBGdwb3MDMg--?p=time+bomb+town+lindsey+buckingham&vid=b3baf17432b2884083e374bbf0d16e4c&l=2%3A41&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DVN.608033534047292015%26pid%3D15.1&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DzNQ2fUHNd2I&tit=Time+Bomb+Town+-+Lindsey+Buckingham&c=1&sigr=11ajptl71&sigt=113dhl9f8&age=0&fr2=p%3As%2Cv%3Av%2Cm%3Asa&hsimp=yhs-001&hspart=mozilla&tt=b) in _Part I_ ). For my other recent crack at writing these guys, see [**here**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3266666).

**November 12, 1955**

As the string of colored pennants knifed to the ground, joining the onslaught of rain in a jagged flutter, Marty was too astonished to think anything other than, _Why didn't those disappear, too?_

He stood around for five minutes, wrapping himself tighter in his leather jacket even though it did nothing to keep out the storm, because, beneath his rising panic, he was convinced that was just the way things worked. Doc would appear out of nowhere in another few seconds—time machine intact, if slightly worse for wear—and they'd get back to the future.

Five minutes became twelve minutes became twenty. Marty's panic wasn't just rising; it was a goddamn _flood_. He gave up on the sodden walkie-talkie, letting it fall to the slick, dark asphalt.

A pair of headlights loomed out of nowhere; Marty recognized the old guy at the wheel of the car. The last time Marty had seen him, the guy's wife had been wildly pleading with him _not_ to stop.

"Get in, kid," said the old guy, perplexed, shaking his head. "You'll catch your death out there!"

"Uh, thanks," Marty replied, dashing around to yank open the passenger-side door. "Sorry about the upholstery. It's been raining like crazy all night. Sir, I don't want to put you out of your way—"

"Shut up, son. Tell me where you're headed," sighed the driver, tossing Marty a handkerchief.

"There's only one man who can help me," Marty said, "and I've gotta find him, _stat_. Hill Valley."

That was the opposite direction from the one in which the old guy had been going, but he took Marty back to the town square without too much fuss. "Good luck finding your man," he said, and drove off in such a hurry that he hit Marty with freezing, muddy spray from the gutter.

"Yeah, thanks," Marty muttered, shaking himself, "thanks for _nothing_ ," and, as the rain began to let up, turned to find exactly what he'd hoped to see. Doc dancing like a madman in the DeLorean's fire-tracks, oblivious to anything other than the fact he'd successfully sent Marty's earlier self—

The first thing Doc did was scream and call Marty a ghost; the second thing he did was keel over.

"Jesus, Doc, that's just great," Marty muttered, rummaging through one of Doc's pockets, in which he found fragments of damp paper, and then tried the other, until he found Doc's car keys. "What a time to decide you believe in the supernatural," he grunted, taking hold of Doc under the arms, dragging him a few steps closer to the car. "Are you even gonna believe _me_ when you wake up? Come on…"

Relocating Doc's sorry ass to the back seat of his own vehicle took several minutes of heaving and shoving, but once accomplished, the rest was history. Marty knew the drive back to Doc's place in this unfamiliar geography better than he remembered the way back to not-yet-Lyon-Estates.

Doc was semi-conscious by the time they got back to 1640 Riverside Drive, so getting him to stagger inside wasn't impossible. He went down like a rock on the sofa, instantly asleep, and it took Marty just as long to get Doc out of his wet coat, shoes, and socks as it had taken him to get Doc into the back of the car. Marty started a fire in the grate, set Doc's clothes out to dry, and then peeled off his own, adding them to the rogues' gallery of laundry before collapsing in the armchair. His last thought before drifting off was that he hoped he wouldn't dream.

Marty wasn't sure how long they'd been asleep when Doc—leaping up, tripping across the room—yanked him back into uneasy consciousness. He'd begun to pace, muttering to himself, so Marty got to his feet and scrubbed at his eyes and forehead until it hurt too much to _be_ a dream.

"It isn't gonna do you any _good_ , Doc," he said. "I'm really here. I know you don't think that's possible after all the hard work we put in, but please, _please_ stop that and listen for a second."

Doc halted in his tracks, staring bug-eyed, as if he still suspected Marty of being incorporeal.

"All right, then, Future Boy," he said, almost challenging. "How the hell _are_ you still here?"

"As soon as I got back to nineteen eighty-five, we—" Marty paused, mindful of the torn-up letter in Doc's coat pocket "— _uh_ , you know, we went home from the mall parking lot. It was really late. I woke up and everything was back to normal—no, Doc, _better_ than normal. My old man wasn't a loser anymore, my mom and siblings had successful careers; for Christ's sake, my dad even wrote a book that got _published_. Biff was like, I don't know, our errand-boy or something. I had a sweet set of wheels. Jennifer turned up just in time for our trip to the lake, but then, suddenly, _whoosh_ , there _you_ were in the DeLorean, Doc. You'd been to the future and got it all tricked-out; it could fly and run on garbage, shit like that. You said we had to go to the future because my kids there were some kind of screw-ups, and while we were doing that Old Biff got hold of this sports almanac I'd bought and took the time machine for a joy-ride and gave it to his _younger_ self—"

"Marty, cut to the chase," Doc admonished, but it was obvious that Marty had his attention, that all of the fight had gone out of him. "You're trying to tell me that _Biff Tannen_ had the wherewithal to steal a statistics book from you sometime in the distant future, figure out how the DeLorean worked so he could steal _it_ , and then return right under our noses? I find this chain of events improbable."

"It wasn't so improbable when we got back to an alternate nineteen eighty-five where my dad was dead, my mom was married to Biff, and, by the way, that asshole owned the whole _town_ because he'd used the almanac to win bets on every major sporting event in a thirty-year window."

"Oh, Marty," murmured Doc, gravely. "That's why you came back, isn't it? To prevent Biff from giving the book to his younger self. Great Scott, this is a _disaster_. Did you succeed? No, wait, what am I saying! Clearly you didn't; you got stranded. Did _I_ succeed? Am I still out there?"

Marty closed his eyes. "No, Doc," he said between gritted teeth. "You got struck by another branch of the same lightning that struck _me_ and…and I don't know where you are. You just _vanished_." He could hear Doc pacing again, but that didn't last long; Doc's footsteps went over to the armchair. "If you mean, did we get the almanac, then, yeah, we did. I burned the sucker in a tin bucket."

"We have no idea when lightning will strike again, Marty," said Doc, despairingly, "Even if we did, it will still take me thirty _years_ to reconstruct the flux capacitor and acquire that automobile."

"I hate to wonder out loud," said Marty, slowly, "but do you think we're now in an alternate timeline like that other nineteen eighty-five all because I got stuck here and you got zapped to oblivion?"

"It'll take my entire family fortune, of course, and _then_ some," lamented Doc, and returned to his pacing. "I sincerely doubt that—that newfangled _thingamajig_ with the impractical door is the only device on wheels that would work for a chassis! Hell, we've got a car right here. That's a start."

"Would you laugh," Marty ventured, "if I told you someday you're gonna find DeLoreans stylish?" He squeezed his eyes shut again, longing for some straight black coffee, grapefruit juice, _anything_ sharp enough to clear his head. "No, Doc," he said firmly. "Know what? I won't let you do that."

"Why the devil not?" asked Doc, gesticulating wildly; over on the sofa, Copernicus whimpered.

"Because _you_ wouldn't want it," Marty said, marching over to the fireplace to fetch Doc's coat. "Or, as the case may be, your _future self_ wouldn't. Do you know what you said to me, Doc?" he asked, fishing first in the empty pocket, switching quickly to the other. "You said you wish you'd never built the time machine." He pulled out the handful of ripped-up paper. "You said it's caused nothing but grief. Now, I know what I wrote on this paper, and I know why you tore it up."

Doc's eyes went wide, and he flew to the nearest lamp. "Quick, bring that over here," he said. "If we're in an alternate nineteen fifty-five, _if_ your suspicions are correct, then..." He gestured for Marty to spread the pieces on the end-table, putting them back together. "Great _Scott_. Look."

Marty blinked at the reconstructed note in dismay; it was _blank_. He hadn't expected to be right.

"This is more than just heavy, Doc," he said, running both hands through his hat-and-rain-wrecked hair in agitation, "it's freaking me out. What about that videotape out in the garage? Do you suppose—"

They practically stumbled over each other to get out of the house, across the driveway, and into the laboratory. Copernicus, whining his concern, wasn't far behind. The endeavor took a great deal more banging on Doc's television set, jiggling the jury-rigged wires, and sweet-talking the video camera that was becoming something of a clunker (even by nineteen eighty-five standards) than before.

Marty gawped at the screen as they rewound and fast-forwarded repeatedly. Nothing but static.

"Then I guess that's the end of it," he sighed, surrendering to the void of acceptance. "I'm stuck."

"We should at least _try_ to send you home," Doc insisted, regarding Marty with a resigned, wistful smile. "You've got a girl, remember? What was her name, Jennifer? You said she was beautiful."

"Nah, Doc," Marty sighed, wondering why the words didn't hurt more. "If our theory's right, she'll forget all about me. I never really had her," he said in a last, terrible fit of realization, and took the sodden clock-tower flyer out of his back pocket. The front remained an appeal for funds to save Hill Valley's only proud monument, but the back, which had once borne Jennifer's phone number, was blank. "At least I've still got _you_ , huh?"

 

**March 15, 1956**

George's eyes lit up as he jabbed excitedly at his notepad with the eraser of his pencil. "And _that's_ when our brave heroine wakes up, only to find she's been entrenched in a vast network of sleeping souls who have been kept in stasis by a colonizing extraterrestrial force for _millennia_. But," he added, and Marty couldn't help but warm to that spark of mischief in George's voice, what when he retained fond memories of it lulling him to sleep when he was small, "the _real_ twist is when she discovers the aliens have done it for the good of humanity. They couldn't stand to see us destroy ourselves, so they forged us into this—this _oneness of being_ until such time as a worthy leader might rouse from slumber and lead us out of darkness and into peaceful co-existence with the benevolent conquerors of Earth! The end," added George, sheepishly. "What do you think?"

"I think you boys had better order somethin', or you're outta here," Lou groused. "What'll it be?"

"Chocolate milk for him," said Marty, indicating George, "and black coffee for me." Lou nodded and wandered off to fill the order. Marty grinned at George, which seemed to reassure him a little. "That's just—you know, Da— _damn_ , I never—never knew you had it in you," Marty said, watching George's face pass through several stages of agitation until his commentary had resolved itself as positive. "I mean, I knew you had spirit if you put your mind to it, but that's really something, _really_ creative. Tell me, though, George, is it sheer _coincidence_ your heroine's named Lorraine?"

"Of _course_ not," said George, blushing ten shades of red as Lou slides their drinks over. "The whole idea is that it's going to be a surprise for her," he continued. "When it gets published. That's why I asked you here today." George took a long swig of his milk for courage. "Marty, I want your critical and honest opinion before I send it out. Don't go easy on me. What do you _really_ think?"

 _I think my old man kept all the family guts to himself_ , Marty thought, but there's no way in hell he could actually say it. As it was, he wasn't even sure if he was going to be _born_ in this timeline, much less born quite the _same person_ as he had been back in his own. If this was even a separate timeline at all. If he wasn't going to be born, surely he should have vanished by now?

"Your plucky heroine, Lorraine," ventured Lou. "Is she as pretty as the real one? She's gotta be pretty. Those magazines don't sell unless the stories in 'em have got broads for the artists do draw on the cover. If she ain't pretty, then you better hope some of the other stories have got—"

"She's an unassuming, yet passionate source of charisma who opens like a flower over the course of events," George said, and Marty resisted the urge to scan George's manuscript to make sure he _hadn't_ used those exact words while Lou busted a gut laughing. "What? Do you think it's awful?"

"I think your plucky Lorraine is gonna sell loads of issues of..." Marty hesitated, realizing that he only knew about _Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction_ because Doc had loaned him a handful of issues when he was in seventh or eighth grade; even then, he wasn't sure when that magazine was first published. "Of whatever the best damn sci-fi magazine out there _is_ , George. You deserve it."

"My hope is that maybe somebody at one of the publishers will think it's good enough to turn into an illustrated serial," said George, in a startling fit of optimism. "Then, I'd get to work with the artist and make sure everything looks just _perfect_ for Lorraine. You see, I—I was thinking—"

Marty narrowed his eyes slyly and took a sip of his coffee. "Out with it, you rascal. What?"

"I was thinking I might propose to Lorraine after graduation in May," said George, in a dizzy rush, so Marty pushed his chocolate milk at him in a hurry. Fortified by another breathless sip, he carried on, "And if the story sells, I could use the proceeds to buy a ring. That's the plan, anyway."

Marty sipped some more coffee, staring at the counter; if George looked too closely at him, he would have to claim there was something in his eye. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," he muttered into his cup; it was no use. He sniffled, feigning a sneeze at the last second.

"Hey," Goldie said, coming out of the back room with a crate of freshly washed plates, mugs, and bowls in hand, "that's a mighty fine plan you've got, McFly. How about you, Klein?" he asked Marty, swinging around to set the crate up next to Marty's elbow while he paused for breath.

"How about me _what_?" Marty asked, hastily slurping down the rest of his coffee. Goldie gave him a look that said _Your half-assed deflection don't mean a thing_ , so Marty sighed and looked him in the eye. "Oh, you know. Same old, same old. I've been playing gigs with Marvin and the guys."

"Didn't mean the music," Goldie clarified, winking. "I meant, have you got yourself _somebody_ yet."

"Lorraine and I tried to set him up with one of her friends," George volunteered. "It didn't work."

"Are you still living up at the Brown Estate?" Goldie asked. "You won't meet _anybody_ up there."

"Ain't it the truth," Lou said, glaring at Goldie. "Get back to _work_ , son. What do I pay you for?"

"For my sparkling wit and stunning insight into the human psyche," said Goldie. "Listen, _Marty_ —"

Marty stared back into his empty mug, shaking his head. "Tell the guys thanks, but no thanks," he said. "Violet was nice and all," he said, and then turned to George, "and so was Lucy, _honest_ , but I think my life's a little too complicated right now to be thinking about romance. I'm focused."

"Dedication to the trade, my man," said Goldie, clapping him on the shoulder. "Right _on_." He picked up the crate and went on his way, leaving Lou to stew in narrow-minded confusion.

"How's Doc Brown, anyway?" George asked, as if he'd only just remembered the man existed. "Lorraine thought he was your uncle or something, but I think she's mistaken. You two have the makings of an epic, brothers-in-arms friendship. Have you ever read Tolkien? I _really_ think—"

"You're right," Marty sighed. "He's not family. He's—well, he's a friend of the family, you might say. Back when I still had one." He swallowed and thought, _Time to weave the lie_. "I lost my parents a long time ago. I got shuffled from relative to relative till I could get by on my own." He thought of Doc, the one real, _solid_ anchor in his displaced existence; he thought of how, these past few months, without the need for any discussion beyond unspoken agreement, he'd started crashing on the empty side of Doc's vast bed instead of on the sofa or in the guest-room when he'd straggle in late from gigs smelling of other people's smoke. "I, uh, sort of ended up on Doc's doorstep by chance. He took me in."

"He's an orphan, too," George pointed out. "He lost his parents when he was in graduate school. Car crash. Everyone in Hill Valley knows; it was in the papers when I was a kid. Ten years ago."

Marty looked up at George, startled. "I guess I never knew that," he replied. "Life's tough."

The front door to Lou's Café swung open just then, and the moment's delicate suspense was broken. Biff Tannen and his three cronies glanced nervously from Marty to Lou to George, and then back to Marty.

"What are you _buttheads_ looking at?" Biff demanded, sauntering to the farthest end of the bar. "Just 'cause you eggheads run this joint with an iron pocket-protector now doesn't mean we can't eat here. Hey, _Lou_! What's cookin'? We're starved. Where's that lazy kitchen help of yours?"

 _Practicing politics_ , Marty thought, grinning, _and you aren't even lucky enough to be getting stoned._

 

**June 12, 1956**

"Oh, _Marty_!" Lorraine squealed, barreling straight past Doc, who had opened the door for her and George, and into Marty's unsuspecting arms. "Happy Birthday! Weren't you going to tell us?"

Marty rolled his eyes at Doc, which got him an equally fond eye-roll in response. "Nope," Marty said, patting her on shoulders and drawing back to have a look at her. "You're just gorgeous, you know that?" he asked, winking at his—erstwhile father? Newfound _friend_? "George is one lucky guy." At that, George went slightly green in the face and nervously patted his pocket, which told Marty all he needed to know. "So, I don't know about you guys, but since Doc, Marvin, Goldie and the gang decided to throw this shindig, I think we ought to start on the cake before Doc's waxless candles burn this place down." _Not even kidding_ , he thought, and watched Doc's face for even the faintest _inkling_ of recognition regarding the event to which he was referring. _Well, that answers that_ , Marty thought, already breathing easier, and went over to blow them out.

Everyone cheered, and Earl, one of the Starlighters, passed over a cigarette. Lorraine and Doc both took puffs as it made its way from hand to hand, but George and Goldie declined. Marvin, standing closest to Marty, took a long drag before handing it off to him. _Why the hell not_ , Marty thought, and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. His coughing fit put everyone in absolute stitches.

"I can't believe I'm hangin' with a bunch of eighteen year-olds," Marvin sighed, taking the cigarette back from Marty's urgently twitching hand, "but you kids are all right," he added, giving Goldie a companionable salute. "Hey," he said. "Emmett. This is a nice house you've got. Young guy like you with a big place all to himself, what a shame. Well, except for Marty. _He's_ all right."

"I'm thirty-six in September, thanks for asking," said Doc, dryly, and approached Marty next to the cake with a contemplative expression. He took a Swiss Army knife out of his blazer—God, that pale yellow tweed thing _plus_ the shirt he had on under it were so terrifying Marty had to smile—and made ready to cut. "Who wants the corner piece? Going once, going _twice_..."

There was a lot of eating and smoking to be done, but a relative lack of drinking. Marty and Doc weren't the biggest fans of alcohol, so George, Lorraine, and Goldie went to town on the cooler of beer and provided some good-natured heckling and hilarious dancing while Marvin, Marty, Doc, and the Starlighters had a bit of a jam session. Ever since Marty had spotted the saxophone, Doc, as _Doc_ liked to put it, had been in _real_ trouble. He played not only that, but also the organ next to the bathroom door with its tidy stack of sheet music. At some point, Marvin started up _Earth Angel_ just for shits and giggles, and while Goldie did the giggling, George and Lorraine got _serious_.

As the song came to an end, Marty was so wrapped up in the closing riff he'd got going that he almost failed to notice that the other musicians had fallen silent. He looked up just in time to see Lorraine—regarding her right hand in the low evening light—squeal, throw her arms back around George, and shriek _yes_ so loudly that even Doc jumped. And then there was applause.

Marty knew an antsy, over-stimulated Doc when he saw one, so it wasn't too long after that when he politely started nudging people homeward. George took a rolled-up magazine out of his blazer on the way out and pressed it to Marty's chest; Marty hugged him so hard that the pages almost got crushed. Goldie, in gentlemanly fashion, turned down a ride from Marvin and the guys, insisting that he'd been reading up on aerobics, that the walk would do him good. Earl was the last one out the door; he tucked a cigarette behind Marty's ear in jest.

Once they'd left, Doc took one look at Marty, shook his head fondly, and removed the cigarette from where Earl had placed it. Marty shivered at the brevity of Doc's touch, watched him set the cigarette aside on the end-table. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, took a step closer.

"You're young, Marty," said Doc, as if it pained him to speak, and _now_ Marty understood why those other words hadn't hurt as much as they ought. "You should leave, go to college. I know plenty of people; I'll write you recommendations. They won't care that you didn't graduate high school."

"Doc," Marty replied, setting a hand on Doc's wrist, and it was like touch between them had always been: easy, almost an afterthought, but _never_ taken for granted. "I'm eighteen. I'm a decent musician. I don't need a degree to play. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kinda happy here."

"Happier than you were in nineteen eighty-five?" Doc asked, blinking at Marty's hand, and Marty could sense an epic fit of sarcasm in the works. "Happier than you were in the future, where cola without sugar and undergarments in outlandish shades and expressions like _heavy_ abound?"

"Doc," repeated Marty, feeling his stomach flip; Doc was wearing a bright-blue Hawaiian shirt with garish tiki masks all over it, and his fondness—his affection, his love, whatever it was, he didn't _care_ —for this eccentric man knew no bounds. "If you want me to leave, just _say_ so—"

It wasn't Doc who'd leaned forward, but Marty, on tiptoe, who'd collided with him. Marty didn't know how to do anything else, not in _practice_ , but he'd kissed people before. He had his doubts about Doc on both fronts, at least until he effortlessly adapted the movements of his mouth to what Marty was doing. So they'd _both_ kissed people before. Doc set his hands on Marty's shoulders; Marty wound both fists in Doc's stupid shirt.

"I didn't want you to leave," Doc rasped, nuzzling Marty's cheek. "Not even back then."

"Back _when_ , Doc?" Marty joked, but his heart was racing. Doc had him by the hips now, and where he wanted this to end would've been dangerous territory in nineteen eighty-five, let alone in the nineteen fifties. He'd kissed Jennifer, and he'd kissed one of the Pinheads. He had the feeling his body thought it was all good; fuck, it probably all _was_. "You've got to be more specific."

"Back in November," Doc said, and he dropped a kiss against Marty's neck that made Marty's knees go weak. "No sooner had I watched you depart than, bam, _there_ you were again. What were the chances—"

"How about we do the math later," Marty suggested, contemplatively fingering Doc's top shirt-button.

"Only if you've thought this through," Doc warned, gently covering Marty's hands with his own, although he didn't impede their progress.

"How am I supposed to resist after watching you in those clothes?" Marty teased, tugging him toward the hall.  "Tacky, sexy—same difference."

Marty was pretty sure they were both about to have sex for the first time ever, and he did  _not_ want to fuck that up.  The way Doc held him, watched him undress like he was afraid Marty might disappear, made Marty's breath catch, a fierce ache deep in his chest.  Fucked if all the songs on the radio his whole goddamn life hadn't just said that love felt strange, and fucked if they weren't just  _right_.  He still didn't know if he should be using that word,  _love_ , but he knew what the feeling was, and he burned with it.  

Doc was naked, too, except for his shirt still on and hanging open.  When he moved to take it off, Marty stayed his hands and climbed onto the mattress beside him.  The act wasn't as glamorousas the songs would have you believe, what with how much shifting around it took and how much time they spent stuffing pillows behind Doc to make sure he was comfortable with Marty in his lap, but, once they got there,  _wow_.  Doc stroked their erections together with one careful, encompassing hand.

 _God, he's strong_ , thought Marty, returning Doc's kiss as his breath quickened.   _I never realized_ —

"Tacky enough?" Doc asked, breaking into that warm,  _ridiculous_ half-smile, and Marty was lost.

"Oh  _Jesus_ ," he whimpered, slumping forward against Doc, already slicking Doc's hand.  " _Fuck_!"

Doc's breath hitched—high, shallow, _strained_ —and that's when Marty knew  _he_ was coming, too.

"Marty," sighed Doc, releasing them from his grasp, wrapping his arms tight around Marty's waist.

It was a long time before Marty felt like doing anything besides rest, cradled against Doc. He let his trembling fingers skim along Doc's sides, his arms, the base of his neck.  Doc's hair brushed the backs of Marty's hands, sending a tremor of ticklish, pleased surprise down Marty's spine.  Had he  _ever_ in his old life, even once, considered Doc a potential lover?  Sensing the gist of his introspection, Doc tipped Marty's chin up.

"I guess that's Happy Birthday," Doc said; his uncertain tone broke Marty's heart.  "I didn't plan this—or  _expect_ —"

"I'm willing to talk, but why don't we take a nap first?" Marty asked, nuzzling Doc's mouth with a sleepy, off-center kiss.  He didn't want to hear  _shit_  about their age difference; these revised circumstances had reduced the gap to eighteen years.  He wondered if it would've even mattered to him had it remained a veritable  _chasm_  of forty-eight.  Probably not, he decided, and kissed Doc some more.  "Besides, who plans  _anything_?"  

"From the sound of things,  _you_ ," Doc teased, but making out till they  _passed_ out seemed like a better idea, so that's exactly what they did.

 

**September 5, 1960**

Marty yawned and rolled over, snagging the corner of a pillow. " _Mgh_ ," he said. "Doc?"

"I told you champagne was a bad idea," said Doc, dismally. "My head hurts already."

"Whatever," Marty mumbled against Doc's shoulder, letting himself be folded into the other man's embrace. Four years on, it wasn't so weird anymore. Four years on, Doc was turning forty, but he looked the same as he always had. _Same as you always will_ , Marty thought, but he didn't say it. Instead, he kissed everything he could reach and said, "You're the doc, Doc. Wanna count down?"

"The precise _time_ at which I was born is immaterial," Doc muttered into Marty's hair, yawning.

"Sure it is," Marty sighed, giving the briefest consideration to getting dressed and fetching them something to eat from the kitchen. _Not worth it_ , he decided, and clung to Doc all the tighter. "If your future self could hear you now, I'm sure he'd give you a lecture and a half."

"We're getting there, Marty," Doc reminded him, both sets of long, inventive fingers mapping their careful way down Marty's spine. "Think about it. Twenty-five more years. I'll be an old man."  Unhurried, he stroked Marty's lower back.

"Scares me sometimes," Marty admitted, content to be touched. "Why haven't I disappeared yet? This wasn't even supposed to happen. If _we_ haven't disappeared yet, then nobody else in any other timeline has sorted shit out. Does that mean we're now the _only_ timeline? Christ. Did you know that George and Lorraine are starting to talk about _kids_? Three years from now, Doc. My brother."

"Not your brother as such," Doc reminded him, and then fell silent. "Are you afraid now?"

"No," Marty said, and lifted his head to look Doc in the eye. "Not like this, not with you."

 

 **December 20, 1981**  
  
The Lone Pine Mall was as gaudy as all get-out at Christmastime. That, at least, was constant. Marty stuck one hand in his pocket and pushed Lorraine's cart for her, trailing along in her wake. Doc and George both hated shopping, so they were off at a movie with Dave and Linda.

"Marty, _look_ at these," Lorraine exclaimed, holding up a pack of Calvin Klein men's underwear, not even pretending to be scandalized. "They're just like yours!" she said in genuine dismay.

"You mean my old ones from, like, twenty-odd years ago?" Marty asked. "Get out of town! Those were, _ah_ ," Marty stammered, "an early prototype. You know the Doc, he's got all these friends—inventors, innovators, even people in the fashion industry. It was kind of a—a gag gift. At least the last name matched." Lorraine groaned and threw them at him. "Jesus, Lorraine. They were _purple_. Haven't you ever noticed Doc's taste in shirts? You wouldn't think it, but he's a real joker."

"Oh, your Doc is a _character_ all right," she said, and for an instant Marty could see the flirtatious seventeen year-old girl to whose eerily familiar face he'd awakened in that darkened room. "I'm glad you didn't leave, you know," she said. "After all that bad business with Biff and the dance."

Marty nodded slowly, returning her smile, and tossed the underwear in Lorraine's cart. "Me too," he replied, strolling along as she continued to fish through packages of undershirts looking for the kind George liked. "It's funny, isn't it. You never know how life's gonna turn out." Marty's throat constricted, and he had to look away. _Thirteen years overdue_ , he thought. "Are there any more kids on the cards for you and George, or is he not writing stories fast enough to keep two teenagers fed?"

"Not _quite_ ," Lorraine sighed, "but he teaches fast enough, and that's all I can ask. No. No more."

Marty nodded, regarding the imitation-granite tiles lining the department store floor. "That's fair."

"What is it, Marty?" asked Lorraine, her voice playful, yet sad. "Two godchildren aren't enough?"

"Lorraine," said Marty, reaching for her hand, "they're the best godkids Doc and I could ask for."

 

 

**October 26, 1985**

"Hey, _hey_!" shouted Biff, excitedly, barging into the house with an open cardboard box in his arms. _Doc's and George's cars aren't going to wax themselves_ , Marty thought, but they all clustered around anyway. "Mr. McFly! Take a look at this. I think your book's finally here!"

Doc glanced from the cover to Marty as George, beaming, lifted a copy of the hardback.

"Oh, honey!" exclaimed Lorraine, proudly, fingering the illustration. "It's your first novel."

"Look, it's not like we have time to read it _now_ ," Linda protested. "We'll miss our reservation."

"The Bluebird definitely isn't _cheap_ ," said Dave, in agreement, "and if we're late, I'm not paying."

 _I remember when that joint was just a seedy motel_ , Marty thought, grinning at Doc. _Well, no, I guess it never really was; here and now, it's a fancy fucking hotel where we're gonna celebrate the high point of my best friend's writing career and propose a toast to his lovely wife and kids._

"I guess the kids are right, Lorraine," sighed George, and stuck the book back in the box. "Assuming the cars are ready to roll, who's riding with whom? Now, _Biff—_ are they all set?"

"Lemme just go finish up Doc's," said Biff, bowing out. "Won't be a minute!"

"What a kidder," said George, absently, and bent to rummage in his tennis bag. "We've got a few minutes," he continued, producing a camera from within its depths, "and I've got a new Polaroid!"

Amidst groans of _Oh, Dad!_ and _No way, that bites!_ from Linda and Dave, all of them trooped after George and out into the backyard. The tree and the stone well were just as Marty remembered them, if somewhat more neatly landscaped; Dave and Linda took their places in defeat at George's careful bidding. Lorraine stood back, indicating with a wave of her hand that Marty and Doc should stand in between her children. She winked, waving again; Doc put an arm around Marty.

"That's more like it," said George, pleased, holding the Polaroid in front of him. He stepped back from the tableau to stand beside his wife. "Nobody move. On the count of three. One, _two_ _—_ "

 _I'm a McFly no matter which version of reality I wind up in_ , Marty thought, smiling as he and Doc and his siblings settled into each other while his father raised the camera, _and Doc is always mine._


	2. Chapter 2

**August 18, 1956**

Marty woke to darkness and skewed covers, his breathing sluggish with the sticky indoor air. The air conditioning was down again, never mind Doc's constant, tinkering improvements, so Marty rolled over to poke him in the chest and gripe about it and generally be a pathetic cuddle-bug. What he got instead was an armful of empty duvet.

"Goddamn it, Doc," he said, yawning, and sat up. "Lights," he commanded, squinting as they flared to life. "Sixty-five percent. No, wait! Fifty. _Jesus_."

Doc wasn't anywhere in the room, the armchair in the corner included, although he _had_ left a stack of mysterious engineering journals tipping precariously off the cushion. Marty got up and went over to the chair, shoving the periodicals back so they wouldn't scatter across the carpet. He found Doc's dressing-gown on the floor, scooped it up, and was about to toss it in the disintegrating wicker laundry hamper before he thought better of the action. He wrapped himself in it instead, yawning, and left the bedroom.

Intimacy was undiscovered country, so they'd spent their first few months sounding out sex as enthusiastically as they'd always approached Doc's experiments. Everything about Doc in the sack set Marty's heart pounding, and, judging by Doc's reactions to _him_ , the reverse was also true. Marty had discovered he enjoyed giving head, but whether that was because he might be bisexual or because he was clearly _Doc_ -sexual, he wasn't all that sure. In turn, Doc's mouth on him—and, for that matter, Doc's breath and teeth and _weight_ on him—never failed to leave Marty a boneless, blissed-out _wreck_. He felt awful that he was too young for this, didn't have the stamina to last at the hands of a lover so patient and thorough.

"This isn't so great, Doc, in case you hadn't noticed," he'd muttered just a few hours earlier from beneath his pillow. "I can't last five minutes with your fingers— _um_ , hah. Doing _that_."

"Nonsense," Doc had said, lifting the pillow to fondly scrutinize Marty, face still flushed. "Any experiment along these lines is successful as long as you lose the capacity for speech."

It was damp outside, both grass and driveway slick with rain, so Marty picked his way over to the garage almost on tiptoe. The door was unlocked, so slipping inside unnoticed wasn't difficult. He was overwhelmed almost instantly with the scent of something cooking and the sound of Doc's welding torch on full throttle. Crock pots weren't a thing yet, and they wouldn't be until nineteen-seventy, but he'd given Doc a harmless heads-up, so Doc had gone and _made_ one. So far, it'd saved them from ordering out as often as Doc had done before.

" _Doc_!" Marty shouted over the racket, lifting the lid of the pot; onions, garlic, spices, and that signature whiff of too much coriander smacked him in the face. "For crying out loud, it's Friday _ni_ —ah, Saturday _morning_! Can't it wait? And what the hell's with the midnight snack, anyway? It's two A.M.! Isn't this kinda complicated?"

Doc powered down the torch and flipped up his helmet. "Don't be ridiculous, Marty. It's never too late _or_ too early for _Hasenpfeffer_. Want some?"

"Maybe for breakfast," said Marty, and put the dripping lid back on the cooker. "The air conditioning up at the house is busted again. What gives?"

Doc took his helmet off and grunted, setting it aside. "I'm sorry," he said, placing his torch on the floor, and came over to stand beside Marty. There were a pair of chipped bowls and a few pieces of antique silverware sitting next to the crock pot; Doc took the spoon, lifted the lid, and tasted the broth. "You like this stuff, don't you? I've made it before."

"I like it fine for dinner," Marty sighed, folding his arms as Doc spooned some into each bowl. "I was, uh, kidding about breakfast."

Doc looked up sharply, his expression bordering on befuddled apology. "Damn. How am I supposed to eat all of this by myself?"

"Sorry, Doc," Marty sighed. "You've gotta give me the chance to wake up. Maybe I'll feel like some in a little while." He wandered over to where he'd left his guitar case after they'd got in earlier from the previous night's gig, regarding it thoughtfully, and then looked back at Doc. "Is there anything I can do to help?"  
  
Doc wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "If you want to play, I liked the new song. That jazzy one you played a bit slower. Marvin's work?"  
  
"Yeah," Marty said, unclipping the case, warm with Doc's praise. "Marvin's and mine. He wrote the music; I wrote the words. Not too sappy, is it?"  
  
"Nah," said Doc, half smiling, and winked at Marty. "Between that and the food, you'll help me think. This conundrum'll come unstuck in no time."

"What kind of bed-warmer am I," Marty quipped, shouldering his guitar with an exploratory strum, swearing under his breath at the humidity, "I mean, honestly, if I can't keep you from these all-nighters?"

"You're more than just a bed-warmer," said Doc, wryly. "You keep me running so hot I can't chase off inspiration. Now, would you please play something to soothe a sleepless scientist?"

"You're the doc, Doc," said Marty, grinning, tuning his instrument in record time. "One conundrum-unsticking love song comin' right up."

 

**April 1, 1958**

_I should count myself lucky_ , Marty told himself, staring blearily out the tour-bus window. _We're getting in before dusk, which means Doc's gonna want dinner and company._

Somewhere in the remaining ten minutes of their ride into Hill Valley, Marty had managed to doze off. The bus lurching to a halt in front of the courthouse square was what finally woke him, along with seven long, measured peals from the clock tower. _Feels later than it actually is_ , he thought, stretching as the bus driver killed the ignition; he might not have noticed the familiar figure skulking along the sidewalk with hands in coat-pockets if not for its distinctive, restless gait. _Doc!_ Marty got to his feet and stepped into the aisle, almost colliding with Earl in his rush.

"Got somewhere to be, man?" Earl chuckled, stepping back to let Marty dash head of him. "So do we all. It's been a long-ass tour, isn't that the truth. Violet will ream me out."

"One month, two weeks, three days, ten hours, thirty-two minutes," Marty agreed breathlessly, bounding down the bus stairs and onto the sidewalk. "Not that I'm counting. Hey, Doc."

Less than six feet from where Marty stood, Doc stopped pacing and blinked up at him like he couldn't actually believe his restless waiting had actually yielded results. "Hey there," he said, taking a few steps forward, and it suddenly occurred to Marty that Doc, for all he engaged in easy, casual touch with those he trusted, so rarely initiated a full-on _embrace_. "How's the rock-star life?"

For a moment, Marty was too stunned to respond, much less wrap his arms around Doc in return. His brain caught up quickly enough, so it wasn't long before he latched onto Doc for all he was worth. "It's not too bad," he said, burying his face against Doc's shoulder. "I'm tired, though."

"Maybe we ought to head over to Lou's and get some food in you," Doc said, giving Marty's back a vigorous rub-down, but he didn't let go. "Don't try to pretend that wasn't your stomach growling."

"I can vouch for the fact that it _was_ ," said Reginald, passing with a piece of the drum set, "and has been on every leg of this whole damn trip. You better keep him stuffed full of your momma's home-cookin', Doc," he said, setting the kit down before heading back over to the bus.

"Marty," said Doc, sternly, trying to pull back enough to look at him. "You need to eat."

"Nah, I've got a better idea," Marty said, his lips right against Doc's neck, not even starting to feel self-conscious. "How about we go home first, _then_ worry about finding some grub?"

Doc hitched Marty in tighter; Marty longed to kiss him right there, onlookers be damned. "That sounds like a plan," Doc replied softly. "As long as you won't be miserable?"

Briefly, Marty glanced to his left, Doc's right, and saw Marvin giving them an appraising eye. He nodded to Marty, and then whistled to Reginald, Earl, and the rest of the crew, indicating that they should hurry up and unload the remaining instruments. He turned his back, and the other four men hustled, too busy—or at least _pretending_ to be too busy—to pay the scene any mind.

It wasn't a terribly long or even a very satisfying kiss, Marty reflected on drawing back from Doc, but it took the edge off and left Doc looking haunted, hawk-eyed. _Hungry_.

"Sorry to make you wait some more, Doc," Marty said, clapping his elbows as he released him. "Let me help the guys unload this crap, and we'll be outta here in no time."

"For you," Doc replied, his mouth quirking in a distinctly impatient smile, "I'd have _zero_ compunctions about waiting forever. But no time sounds better than eternity."

" _Tacky_!" Marty called over his shoulder, bending to grab his guitar and one of the amps. "You know exactly how to push my buttons, don't you?"

As exhausted as he was, as soon as they got home, Marty backed Doc into the nearest armchair and went down on his knees. He'd never forget the particular feel of Doc's fingers in his hair, or the sound of his name as scarcely a whisper. They went to bed without dinner, nonetheless full.

 

**June 12, 1964**

Lou's Café wasn't the swankiest place to celebrate, and heaven knows Doc could _afford_ swanky. Lorraine had made a wise-crack to Marty once that he'd never forgotten, something about eccentric millionaires and young trophy husbands, but by the time he'd called her on it, she'd refused to repeat herself. For some reason, that's what he was thinking of as he tore into his cheeseburger.

"Where's our favorite couple this evening?" Doc asked, across from Marty in the booth, methodically cutting his burger in half before doing the same. "Couldn't they join us?"

"Doc, I wanted a quiet night out, you know that," Marty said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "There's been a huge, loud party almost every year since—" _since my first birthday here_ , he thinks, but doesn't say it, because _that_ would draw Lou's scrutiny like nobody's business "—since fifty-six."

"You're right, Marty," Doc agreed, considering the pickle-slice he'd skewered with his fork. "Is it living up to your expectations so far?" He indulged in that strangely attractive twist of his lips, the complete _smart_ -ass. "We could've gone somewhere quieter," he said, looking around innocently.

"Doc Brown, no offense," said Goldie, coming back over to refill his iced tea, "you're the only customers we've had all evening, so you'd better not leave now. Can I get you more fries?"

"Thanks, but no," Marty said before Doc could respond. "He'll eat the rest of mine anyway."

"We could've taken them home for Tesla," Doc chided. "You know how she likes a treat."

"We're _not_ feeding the dog junk," said Marty, around a mouthful of potato. "End of story."

"Lookie what we've got here!" interjected Biff, bursting into the diner with a magazine in hand. "Have you eggheads seen the latest? How's this for a cover story?" He sneered at Marty before stepping up to the counter, slapping down the latest issue of _LIFE_. "Homotextu— _sexu_ ality in America," he said, as usual struggling with all things syntactical. "That means fuckin' sissies. The editors have declared San Francisco the pansy capital of this great nation. How d'you figure?"

Lou whistled and started flipping through pages, his eyes widening. "That's some nerve," he remarked, his nonetheless curiously _neutral_ tone pricking Marty's ears. "I'll be damned."

"Next thing you know, God-botherers will be out in the square fussing how _they'll_ be damned," Doc said, shaking his head in disappointment. " _We'll_ be damned," he added under his breath.

That gave Marty a moment of pause, but the more he considered it, he thought, _If the shoe fits_ —

"Now, Mr. Tannen," said Goldie, drying his hands on a dish towel as he came out from the back, "you know that's just uncharitable, don't you? Un-Christian, too. Love thy neighbor as thyself."

"I ain't into lovin' my neighbor if it means doin' _that_ ," muttered Biff, belligerently, and it gradually dawned on Marty that he must've been drinking somewhere prior to arrival. "No fuckin' way."

"Then how 'bout we agree San Fran isn't the holiday destination for you," suggested Goldie, reasonably. He spared the magazine pages a quick peek before flipping it shut, glancing at Doc and Marty.

"Is that gonna be your platform someday, butthead?" Biff scoffed. "Liberty and justice for _queers_?"

"Liberty and justice for every-goddamn- _body_ ," Goldie insisted. "Buttheads like yourself included."

" _Heavy_ ," Marty muttered into another bite of his burger, and Doc flashed Goldie a thumbs-up.

"Another word out of _either_ of you," snapped Lou, jabbing his thumb at Biff and Goldie in turn, "you're out of here on your ass, and _you're_ fired. Got it? My place, my rules. And it's Marty's birthday." He cast about for corroboration, so Doc nodded vigorously.

"That's all right, Mr. Caruthers," said Goldie, coolly, and took off his hat. "With all due respect, I've got exams coming up. So, if it's all the same to you," he continued, "I hereby cordially _quit_."

"I'll be damned!" Biff drawled. "If I haven't just started Hill Valley's colored revolution—"

"Wrong," said Marty, rising, mindful of how Doc tensed. "Goldie's outclassed us all. _Again_."

"And what are _you_ gonna do about it, Klein?" Biff asked. "Sic your crazy old nanny on me?"

"We're off," Doc said, calmly wiping his mouth, but Marty could see that his hands were subtly shaking. "Good night to you both. Mr. Caruthers," he said, nodding to Lou. "Mr. Tannen."

"That's right!" Biff called after them as Doc dragged Marty out the door. "Off to _Gaysville_!"

"We _could_ move," said Marty, under his breath, as they reached the car. "If it isn't safe here."

"Marty, it's not worth giving ne'er-do-wells like Tannen the time of day," Doc insisted, jamming his key into the ignition, "but it isn't wise to hang around and wait for a fight to break out, either."

Marty stared at his hands as they tore out of the parking spot. "Yeah. Hill Valley is _home_."

"We'll be more careful from now on," Doc insisted. " _You'll_ be careful. On tours and such."

 _Doc_ , Marty thought, _I'm always careful. By that logic, we're only ever in danger when we're_ —

"You mean far too much to me," said Doc, thinly. "I won't lose you, not after I got to keep you."

"I love you, too, Doc," said Marty, softly, reaching over with shaking fingers to take Doc's hand.

 

**June 27, 1976**

"[Official Gay Freedom Day Program](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/irisbleufic/514608/58605/58605_original.jpg)," Marty read off the flyer that a shy, friendly young woman had put in his hand. "I guess we picked an interesting day to be here. Did you know about this?"

Doc shrugged, hands in pockets, peering over Marty's shoulder with interest. "I might've had an inkling," he admitted. "One of the gentlemen in that fascinating bar we visited on our last weekend jaunt here a couple of months back mentioned it. I thought it might expand our horizons."

"I'm just glad I don't have to worry about who might be spying on us, Doc," Marty said, and leaned into him for emphasis. "Let's find a good place to stake out and watch the parade, okay?"

"I'm beginning to fear I didn't dress adequately for the occasion," said Doc, deadpan, regarding his pale blue-and-pink checked shirt dubiously. "Perhaps I ought to have gone for something louder."

"These costumes are loud enough," Marty replied, his eyes sweeping the street in bewilderment.

"The freedom to openly self-express is a beautiful thing," Doc remarked. "Look at those feathers!"

"I can't see anything _but_ feathers," Marty admitted, returning a flashy cabaret-boy's smile. "Sequins and glitter as far as the eye can see. And skin. Nobody's gonna have to _ask_ to see this town naked."

"Are you uncomfortable?" asked Doc, abruptly, brows knit in concern. "Do you want to leave?"

"Nah," Marty said, shoving his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. "It's just overwhelming. I told Lorraine and George we were making the trip, and Lorraine wanted to come. George got kinda uneasy, so I didn't push the issue. He's progressive, but maybe not _that_ progressive? I trust Goldie and Marvin, even Earl and Reginald and the rest, but—"

"Nobody knows us here, Marty," Doc said, "and nobody cares. Look at them all. At _us_. Do you care? I'm beginning to think nobody at home in Hill Valley does, either, and before you go opening your mouth to say something wise-ass, Marty, _listen_. Marvin and your band-mates _do_ know. Hell, by now even George and Lorraine know. They stopped trying to set you up with various young women a long time ago, didn't they? And if they _don't_ , I question their powers of observation."

"As it happens," said Marty, just in time to feel somebody behind him pinch his ass, _hard_ , as they walked past. "I _really_ don't. And I'm sure they know. I'm just trying to look out for our safety."

"Hey, pretty-boy," called the evening-gowned perpetrator, by now several yards off, false eyelashes winking at Marty over the short distance. "You're a doll. Ever considered drag?"

Marty shrugged at the queen with a sheepish grin, rubbing his stinging cheek, and then turned to Doc, who looked like he was about to march over and have words. He took Doc by the lapels and lifted his chin, and that got Doc to focus. "Hey," Marty said, "it's cool. Kinda rude, yeah, but I'm flattered. Listen, uh, is that something you'd be into? Like, maybe at home—?"

The fire in Doc's eyes shifted from furious to adoring in half a second flat. "I'm into you just the way you are, Marty, or however you want to be. So if _you're_ into it, then perhaps I'd—"

There in the sunshine, Marty kissed him long and slow and deep. "Maybe not my speed? Hard to say. Unless you see a skirt you'd like on me, I'll stick with eighty-eight miles per hour."

 

**November 6, 1979**

"George," Marty said, noticing too late what his friend had dug out of the corner in Doc's garage—which was doing not only its perpetual double duty as Doc's lab, but _triple_ duty as Goldie's campaign team office now that it was election night—"you might, uh, want to be careful with that."

"Marty, I've seen you on a skateboard," said George, staring at the hoverboard as it neatly slipped from his hand and remained suspended a foot off the ground, "but this is _far out_. Does it do what I think it does? Can you ride it? Where does it _come_ from? It's so, _so_ —futuristic!"

"I hate to disappoint you, but it's just one of Doc's inventions," Marty lied, and, judging from George's expression and slow, relieved nod, George bought it. "As for riding it, yeah, I've been known to, but I try to avoid doing that in public. It's kinda dangerous, do you dig?"

"Oh, of course," said George, raising both hands placidly. "Yeah, I dig. But can I try it?"

"I'd rather give you a few lessons first, how about that?" Marty said, tipping the nose of the board with the toe of his Chuck Taylor so that the opposite end flipped neatly up into his hand. "It's too busy around here with all the phones ringing and Doc constantly printing data so Lorraine can pin it to the damn map." Marty glanced sidelong at the bustle in the space they've cleared out, marveling that Doc had even cared enough about local politics to host such a thing. "Ah, where's Lorraine?"

"She had to run to my parents' house," said George. "My mother's having trouble with the kids."

"That Linda's a handful, huh?" asked Marty, wistfully. "I remember this one time—" _she put on almost all of Mom's make-up and snuck out once the rest of us had gone to sleep, and we didn't know she was gone until her would-be boyfriend's furious father called you at three A.M. and told you to come pick her ass up because she was pitching rocks at his kid's bedroom window_ "—Doc and I were watching her and Dave last year."

"It's an argument over how late they're allowed to stay up and whether or not they can watch television," George sighed, shaking his head. "I guess we'd better get back to the action, huh?"

"Great idea," Marty agreed, taking George by the shoulder, steering him over to command central. Doc was busy painstakingly placing another handful of stick-pins with glossy red spheres for heads, and Goldie speaking on the phone with one of his courthouse contacts in a low voice.

"This is gonna be _tight_ ," Earl told Marty, and then looked at George. "Your turn to take a shift."

"Of course," George said, and went over to the desk Earl had just abandoned. "My civic duty!"

"He's still ahead, though, right?" Marty asked Earl, nervously folding his arms across his chest.

"Hell _yes_ , we took Shonash!" shouted Reginald, slamming his phone down as he got to his feet.

Marty took advantage of the general hue and cry to sneak up on Doc at the map, which meant that Doc nearly dropped his handful of pins when Marty tapped him on the shoulder. "Look at us," he said as Doc regained his composure, steadying Doc's hand. He took one of the pins and planted it over the neighborhood Goldie had just won. "All political and stuff. How are you holding up?"

"My nerves have seen better days, Marty," Doc admitted, but his eyes gleamed with wild, pleased excitement, "but there's something almost as gratifying about this as there is about making a difference in people's lives using science. I've always been one to vote, don't get me wrong, but this takes the concept of shaping the course of our collective future to a new level. Serious shit."

Marty couldn't help cracking a smile at that, so he yanked on Doc's tie—a _tie_ , for Christ's sake, and one that looked like it came from the 1940s at _least_ —and leaned up for a quick peck on the lips. "Lorraine's over at Arthur and Sylvia's house checking on the kids. She'll be back soon."

"She should bring them over here," said Doc, sweeping his hand across the bustling space. "What an opportunity to shape their young minds, a chance to watch history in the making!"

Abruptly, someone hissed for quiet, and the constant chatter died down. Goldie had his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, and he looked somber, focused. Marty glanced sidelong at Doc.

"If I might have your attention," said Goldie, and glanced at his watch. "The last votes are in, and it's only fifteen minutes past midnight." He released a shaking breath, broke into the widest, most elated grin Marty had ever seen. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've _won_ Hilldale. That's a wrap!"

Somewhere in the midst of it all, between champagne corks hitting the ceiling and the breaking-out of cigars, Lorraine returned to catch Marty still mostly sober and attempting to help George maintain his balance on the hoverboard while a tipsy, intensely concentrating Doc looked on.

"Damn those kids," she said, grabbing the nearest glass of alcohol she could find. "Looks like I missed out on all the fun." She downed the champagne and then pulled her flask out of her purse. As a rule, neither George, nor Marty much liked the fact that she carried one, but at least she only seemed to reach for it under celebratory or under other extenuating circumstances. "Can I try?"

Marty stepped back and watched George hover-skate a careful circuit of the limited space they'd managed to clear. He brought the hoverboard to a halt in front of Lorraine and hopped off, beaming. "Just think if I were to put this into a story! No one would believe it," George said.  He was watching when Doc put an arm around Marty's waist, and he didn't even blink.

Doc waved his hand, scooting over on the desk on which he'd been sitting so Marty could hop up and sit beside him. "By all means, write about it. I have no intention of pursuing a patent."

"You ought to, Doc," Marty murmured, leaning close while George helped Lorraine wobble onto the device. "Figure out how it works, send it to mass production, _bam_. We'd be set."

"We don't need the money," Doc said, taking Lorraine's flask from Marty when he offered it. "What is this swill?" he sputtered, handing back the flask. "I was expecting decent scotch at _least_."

"Yeah, well," Marty sighed, taking a swig to catch up. "She's always had a thing for vodka."

 

**July 5, 1986**

Under any other circumstances, Marty might've been indignant about having to work shifts at the information table. Split between him, Doc, Lorraine, and George at one-hour intervals, it wasn't so bad. Besides, his hip had been slightly stiff. Was that _supposed_ to happen when you hit forty-eight? Two months shy of turning sixty-six, Doc seemed as spry as you please.

 _As spry as he always was_ , Marty thought, lost in reflection. _And now that time's caught up with us, running on forward—_

"Mr. Klein?" asked a teenage girl in cut-offs and an [unfortunate Mr. Mister t-shirt](http://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/mr-mister-vintage-1980s-concert-shirt-66085055), nervously adjusting her messy ponytail, sticking out her hand. "I'm Tiffany," she said. "Tiffany Tannen."

"Ah," Marty said, shaking her hand. "You're the one they call Tiff. How's that dad of yours?"

"He didn't want me to come here," she said, staring at the pile of programs in front of Marty. "Can I have one of those? I read in the paper that George McFly and Mayor Wilson wrote stuff for it."

Marty nodded, handing her one. "Between you and me," he said, lowering his voice, leaning forward, "your old man never was all that open-minded. And he's also kind of a raging butthead."

"I'm too young to go to San Francisco on my own," said Tiffany, trying very hard not to laugh at what Marty had just said. "They had _their_ day last month, you know? It's always June."

"Tell your dad he's lucky," Marty told her. "Hill Valley's not as prone to feather boas or running around half-naked, at least not yet. This is only our first crack. I give it another five years _max_."

"Where's Doc Brown?" Tiffany asked. "I hoped he'd be here. I wanted to ask him about my idea for Fall Science Fair. I haven't met him before, but everyone says he's nice. Weird, but nice."

"What grade are you going into?" Marty asked. "Eighth, ninth? I never did that well in the Science Fair until—" _I was your age, which was when I met Doc, and, yeah, he's a game-changer_ "—I got to be about your age, yeah, I guess. They're right about Doc, though. He _is_ kinda weird."

"Says you, Future Boy, with your hoverboard filched from my reject-inventions pile in the garage," said Doc, striding up to the table, sliding into the seat next to Marty as smooth as you please. "Is my partner here giving you the run-around, Miss Tannen? George McFly's told me a lot about you, says he's heard a great deal from your dad while he's doing odd jobs. Says you're smart."

"I'll be fifteen in October," she said to Marty, and then looked at Doc. "I _am_ smart," she continued, lowering her voice to a terrified whisper, "and I kind of sort of _maybe_ like girls, _please_ don't tell."

Marty's heart ached for her more than a little. "Tiffany, your secret's safe with us. Or _is_ it Tiff?"

Tiffany shrugged, clutching the program to her chest. "Tiff's way better than Tiffany, anyhow."

"Why don't you stay here with us," said Doc, "and tell me about your Science Fair idea while we're waiting for Mayor Wilson to give his speech? It's been a long afternoon, and my brain could use a wake-up call. I also think Einstein could use some younger company," he added, nudging the pile of fur dozing in the shade under the table. The dog got up off Marty's feet and licked Tiff's hand.

" _Ew_ ," Tiff said, but she dropped to her knees and cooed over Einstein, scratching behind his ears.

For the briefest of moments, a breeze picked up, and Marty closed his eyes. He could imagine this place as it had looked in nineteen fifty-five, plain as day, and he could also picture it as it had looked in nineteen eighty-five before he and Doc had ever inadvertently gone meddling. He could picture the two thousand fifteen that, now, would never come. He blinked, letting the vision fade.

"Earth to Marty," Doc said, nudging him lightly, and brushed Marty's wrist. "Everything all right?"

After being so lost in memories that had long ago given up the ghost, Marty found that looking into those concern-crinkled eyes was akin to a physical shock. " _Jesus_ , Doc," he said. "There you are."

Doc checked both of his wrist-watches and then felt Marty's forehead, his cheeks, let his thumb slide gently under to the heel of Marty's palm to measure his pulse. "You're dehydrated," he said.

"Remember what I said about what you were like when I first met you?" Marty forged on, fairly certain that Tiff was going to lie in the grass with the damn dog for the rest of the day.

"I know, Marty," said Doc, mildly exasperated, and reached down to rummage in their unwieldy backpack for a bottle of water, "but what _I'm_ trying to tell _you_ is that I've always been here."

"That's what I mean," Marty said, leaning till their foreheads almost touched, "and I'm glad."


End file.
